


Silent My Song

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mild Fluff, One Shot, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 14:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11625717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Joan and Vera engage in a new establishment of trust: a dance.





	Silent My Song

**Author's Note:**

> I'm definitely not an expert in this. I did my research, thought it'd be a cute idea, and went with the flow!

Roles are designed to be changed just as rules are made to be broken.

By allowing someone into your home, you're allowing them to bear witness to the most delicate part of yourself. By inviting her deputy into her flat, Governor Joan Ferguson opens herself up to a monumental risk. There is an underlying vulnerability by inviting Vera into her sacred space.

Now, it's strangely voyeuristic: watching Vera watch her in her natural habitat.

Vera's eyes break the stare. They wander to the photograph in the dining room, commemorating a fencing victory that just so happens to feature Ivan the Terrible and Joan. The image exudes a sense of pride. Vera creates her own stories to describe the moment.

She doesn't ask; Joan doesn't answer.

The stifling silence is broken by Joan who acts as mediator in the ring. Rather than the fragments of her uniform, she sticks to black slacks and a jade sweater. Business casual presents an allure in one so starved of acknowledge: her audience – the lonesome dove – Vera Bennett.

"I find that dancing can be rather... useful in establishing trust. Consider this, _Vera_ , as an extended exercise."

She speaks with her hands, a maestro of her own realm. In the den, an apex predator stalks her watery-eyed prey who's too enamored by the house, the woman, and the act to come.

Nervously, Vera swallows.

"I've... never done anything like this before," she trails off.

Her mother's voice, shrill and crackled, fuels her insecurities.

_With the way you are, you'll die alone. No one wants to dance with you, much less, touch you, Vera._

"May I– Can I have _another_?" Vera implores, her eyes darting back to the kitchen in hopes of another shot of vodka for liquid courage.

With a Cheshire Cat smile, Joan indulges in such vice. Wordlessly, she slips into her kitchen and opens the freezer door, reaching for a shotglass to pour the vodka into. While it's ice cold to the touch, it's fire sailing down Vera's throat and nestling in the pit of her stomach.

She's as ready as she'll ever be.

Through music, Joan reveals more about herself. Scriabin's _Poem of Ecstasy_ spins on the record, round and round, cranking out the sonorous melody.

“Shall we sample the wares of the foxtrot?” Joan inquires, her stare glistening with a hidden mirth.

Vera finds herself at the impressionable age of eleven again – clinging to her dreams of being a ballerina. It falls short.

“If you show me how, I can try.”

Her voice sounds small and she remains unsure of herself. Demurely, she casts her stare down – anywhere but the woman she regards with reverence.

Vera sports an incredibly bland blouse with a pair of jeans: nothing too revealing, everything too boring. She plays it safe though her hair hangs in a heavy curtain over her shoulders.

The trustor initiates, the trustee follows. This is how it begins: open position indicates a space in between. Closed position seals the distance.

Symbolic of their relationship, the Governor – correction: _Joan_ – starts by drawing her left foot forward. Two steps promise to follow. Then, there are two faster slides to the left.

A hand cradles the small of Vera's back. In wonder, she sneaks a glance up. Her trembling lips part. Vera's right hand joins with Joan's left. Rather, Joan dictates this. Their hands raise to meet the height of the little mouse's shoulder.

In such a hopeless dance, there is an underlying caution to her movements. A steady flow dictates their movements though Vera swears that she keeps mucking up. She's never been one to think on her feet. Imitating a waltz, there's more of a lull in between though a fast, erratic pace comes through.

Behold: Whiskey, tango, fox trot.

There's no whiskey involved, only vodka.

"The music doesn't match," Vera protests.

She blurts it out.

At that, Joan scrupulously raises a brow.

Ruins the flow that interrupts the crescendo.

The Governor excuses herself. Bows her head, mindful to the fact; Vera doesn't cry wolf. On the contrary, she expresses her discomfort and Joan obliges – acts as the entertainer. She peruses her shelf for a more suitable record. Exchanges it for another that's more modern for the cause. This time around, Frank Sinatra croons about witchcraft in that charming way of his.

They join once more.

Here, two become one. Together, they glide across the bare, polished floor that holds an unnaturally clean gleam.

Playful banter accompanies the music.

"Are you superstitious, Vera?"

"No..." She falters. "I haven't heard this song in ages."

Mesmerized by the way Joan's chest rises and falls, Vera gawks at the hollow of her throat, a flush spreading along her cheeks. Even now, Joan Ferguson continues to amaze her. They progress in a counter-clockwise fashion. Rather dizzily, Vera's head spins. She's drunk on the act, on the deed, on **Joan**.

Measures repeat themselves. The foxtrot comprises itself of varying movement: slow, slow, quick, quick. There exists four beats to match every bar. As the chorus flourishes, they zip around the room.

Therein lies a versatility to the choice. _Anything goes._

Joan's right hand rests on her deputy's shoulder. Vera's left arm rests on her right. They lock gazes, a steady and intense stare that refuses to be broken.

"I do believe that this is an appropriate exercise. Wouldn't you agree, Vera?"

"Uhmm, yes."

They walk, they dance, they talk.

Their limbs intertwine, come together, and fall apart.

Vera melts, Joan leads.

Along the way, the foxtrot gets broken like the oaths and promises to come.

Sinatra sings and they dance, puppets pulled by invisible strings. The Governor tests the water, her smile hidden against Vera's soft cheek. Such a close proximity could ignite a fire that refuses to simmer down.

"Would you prefer a dance of another kind?"

Mercilessly – cruelly – she teases, holding Vera by the waist and hand.

Either as a courtesy on part of the vodka or the dance, she responds to the innuendo.

"I... yes..."

"You're slipping, Vera," Joan whispers into the shell of her ear.

Said ear reddens from the husky tenor that infiltrates the music.

Joan holds her close, keeps her afloat.

The slow, slow, quick, quick rhythm never ceases to fade even when the music does, the record crackling at its abrupt demise.

Still, they dance and Vera holds on, her arms breaking the rules of the fox trot by encompassing Joan's neck.

From a quick step to a promenade, there exists a fluidity in what they do. Perfectly in sync, who leads who?

 


End file.
